


Not So Bad

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: A lot of Hurt, Alien Planet, Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Makeshift Surgery, Peter Parker Whump, Tony Stark Does Not Like This at All
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-12 21:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Peter is still on the ground, some disgusting aliensomethingtwisting around his insides, wrenching and tightening and making him scream, a sound so horrible Tony gags.





	Not So Bad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).

> I wasn’t really planning to participate in this exchange, but then I saw your request for Peter/Tony +“non-expert forced to do painful medical procedure on loved one” and couldn’t help myself. You give me an opportunity to whump Peter while Tony freaks out about it, I’m going to take it. That’s just how I am.
> 
> I know nothing about surgery and this was a flash exchange so there was not time to learn. Just role with it. Rating is for depiction of pain and etc., not for sex.
> 
> Set at some ambiguous time. IW happened, Tony is alive, he’s not with Pepper, that’s all there is to know about that.

“Come on, Mr. Stark, just do it.” The words are choked and thin. Peter’s eyes, glassy and barely open, find Tony’s, fixing him with a glare that manages to be determined despite the glean of sweat glistening across his face. “_Do it._”

Tony takes a deep breath and looks around, as if their situation somehow may have changed in the last thirty seconds. No dice: they’re still stuck in a crevice on the side of a mountain, wind ripping in waves outside their pathetic excuse for a shelter, too rough for anyone to get to them until the storm dies down. He’s still kneeling over Peter; Peter is still on the ground, some disgusting alien _something _twisting around his insides, wrenching and tightening and making him scream, a sound so horrible Tony gags.

“Smurfette, give me some good news here,” he barks into his earpiece, a last attempt to grasp any other option. 

Nebula’s response is staticky and barely audible. “Calculations show the storm will last at least three more hours. The boy will not survive that long with the parasite inside him.”

“See?” Peter gasps; it’s disconcerting that he can hear Tony’s comms. He grabs Tony’s arm, nails scratching against the metal of his suit. “I can handle it, _please_.”

“Not really you I’m worried about handling it, kid.” But he doesn’t have a choice. He has to pull himself together or Peter is going to die, and there’s no way that’s happening. Not on his watch. Once was enough.

As delicately as possible, he maneuvers Peter out of the undershirt he’d been sporting beneath the Iron Spider, which has long been abandoned. Peter winces, struggling to lift his arms to allow the shirt to come off. Exposed, his chest is lean and muscled, abs defined, but the otherwise flawless picture is marred by the way the skin down one side has gone mottled and green, bruise feathering out into yellowing coils that snake across his body, almost up to his neck.

Peter glances down, then throws his head back with a groan. “Gross.”

Gross isn’t the word Tony would use. More like bone-chilling. Horrifying. Stomach-churning. Nightmare. “Sure you don’t want me to knock you out?”

Peter nods, voice breaking as he explains, “I like my brain the way it is, sir.”

_Sir_. Peter doesn’t call him that very often anymore, but it still comes out when he’s emotional. He must be panicking under the brave front. Tony lets the suit disappear from around his right hand so he can stroke the damp mass of Peter’s hair with his bare fingers.

“It’s a good brain, I support keeping it safe. But it’s gonna hurt, Pete, so let’s have you bite down on your shirt. Okay?”

Peter nods again and obediently opens his mouth—if he’s scared, he’s not showing it. As he stuffs the bundled shirt between his teeth, Tony has an urge to run his fingers across Peter’s lips, because while Peter’s brain may be amazing, his own is the kind of bastard that won’t shut up about his inappropriate crush even now. He resists temptation, placing his hand on Peter’s forehead instead. “You ready?”

In response, Peter raises his thumb: _ready_. Tony swallows. The real question is if _he’s _ready, and the answer is no, but that’s not an option. He closes his face plate and tells F.R.I.D.A.Y. to go ahead.

The screen in front of his eyes jumps to life, overlaying Peter’s body with a thin blue line that runs across his stomach and up his side. It’s easy really: just point and shoot. F.R.I.D.A.Y. has already plotted the course, with a little help from information about the parasite from Nebula. Has already calculated exactly how hot the laser needs to be, too. Tony doesn’t have to do anything but follow her instructions.

Easy, except for the part where those instructions involve _cutting Peter open with a laser_.

“Alright, kid,” Tony says with confidence he doesn’t feel. Not even close. “Guess it’s time to put those healing powers to the test, huh? Hold still.”

He points. He shoots.

Peter does hold still, but the sound he makes puts his other screams of pain to shame. It’s not even a scream, really: a howl, agonizing to hear even muffled by the shirt. He grabs Tony’s thigh, clutching so tights the metal of his suit bends.

Tony keeps tracing up the line F.R.I. charted, trying to ignore the blood that seeps out of the wound. A few centimeters off and he could kill his favorite person in the universe, but it’s fine. He’s an engineer. He created a new element one time. He won’t be a few centimeters off. He’s got this.

He keeps repeating it out loud: “You’re fine, you’re good, you got this.” He hopes Peter assumes the comforting words are meant for him. He throws in, “You’re doing great, kid,” to make the masquerade more convincing.

Peter groans in response, and Tony pauses long enough to look at his face. Mistake. He didn’t need to see Peter’s eyes darting in agony or the distorted grimace twisting around the ball of fabric in his mouth, the tears rolling down his cheeks, streaking through sweat and dirt. He turns back to his work, ignoring the pressure in his chest that promises panic.

The initial cut only takes another minute. Tony flips the laser off as soon as he’s done and immediately frees his hand from the suit so he can wipe the tears from Peter’s face. Peter presses into the touch, eyes squeezing shut. _Nuzzles_ would be the word Tony would use to describe it, if he didn’t know better.

“Step one done,” he assures Peter, patting his cheek. “You’re amazing. Killing it. Ready for more?”

Peter’s eyes drag open and he gives a weak nod, not that he has much choice. His body is sliced open; whatever it is inside him pulsates just beneath the skin.

“Okay, F.R.I., give me step two.”

Step two is awful. Step two is sanitizing his hands—he knew there was a reason he included that function in the suit—letting the nanobots role back up to his elbows, and pulling Peter’s skin apart so he can get a better look.

Step two is seeing something black and slimy wriggling inside the person he’s supposed to keep safe.

It takes everything in his power not to jerk back, not to shout, not to let the blinding flash of panic and nausea and _no_ send him spiraling. He can’t, he _can’t_—he has to stay calm, for Peter.

Peter, whose fingers are clutching his thigh so hard it hurts, ragged sobs racking his body. He’s starting to lose control, which isn’t going to help anything.

“Okay, what’s next?” Tony asks F.R.I.D.A.Y., trying to convey urgency but not panic: a lie. “How do I kill this thing?

In response, the suit closes around Tony’s right hand again, forming a glove, thin and flexible. 

“Touch it, I’ll send an electromagnetic pulse that should kill the creature,” F.R.I. instructs.

“You’re the real hero here, F.R.I., so glad I figured out how to get you to space. Which was really hard, took a lot of doing, so I guess that kind of makes _me _the real hero,” Tony chatters, trying to distract himself as he pries Peter open. The thing inside him is inky and slug-like, throbbing just under his skin. Tony wonders how far its tendrils extend, and then wishes he hadn’t; the thought makes his stomach clench. He swallows back vomit. “It’s a team effort, I guess. We’re all heroes.”

He keeps up the stream of babbling nonsense, not even following his own words as he reaches a trembling finger into Peter’s body—his _body_, oh god—and, eyes closing involuntarily for a second, pokes the thing. It notices immediately and tries to flow up his gloved hand.

“Uh, F.R.I.? Time to zap the critter.”

A jolt of power pulsates down his arm and out of the glove. The thing twitches and squirms. Peter shrieks and convulses, fingers finally ripping through the metal of Tony’s suit, tearing off a chunk and mindlessly tossing it across the cave.

And then it’s over. The thing falls still; in the same moment, Peter slumps, limp and panting.

“Is it…?” Tony asks.

“It appears to be dead,” F.R.I. confirms. “Nebula’s instructions are to seal him. It can be removed at a later date.”

Peter’s eyes go wide, head shaking furiously. He spits out the shirt. “Don’t leave it in me!”

Tony doesn’t need F.R.I. tell him why that’s a bad idea. “Kid, that thing is really in there. There’s no way I can get it out without slicing your spleen open or something.”

“But…it’s…it’s so…” Peter shivers and gags. “Do I have to?”

“‘Fraid so, Ripley.” Tony opens his mask to kiss Peter’s forehead, slick and clammy with sweat. The kid makes a squeaking sound that Tony doesn’t think is entirely from pain. “You can handle it, remember? You can handle anything.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees quietly. When Tony pulls back, the eyes that meet his are reverent under the pain. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

Tony nods and swallows, picking up the shirt and bringing it back to Peter’s mouth. “Don’t thank me yet, closing up is going to hurt, too.”

***

Closing up is more of the same: Peter trembling and screaming, Tony wanting to die. But then it’s over, the wound patched up with a combination of stitching and nanobots.

“We’re good?” he asks F.R.I.D.A.Y.

“Peter will survive until he can be given proper medical care,” she confirms.

Tony sighs in relief and slumps over, letting his suit melt away, head hitting Peter’s chest. “Fuck,” he mutters, barely able to catch his breath. “Kid, don’t ever make me do that again.”

One of Peter’s hands works its way into his hair, the other rests on his back, scratching lightly. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Stark,” he mutters faintly.

Tony lets himself indulge in the moment, melting into the warmth of Peter’s hands, the reassurance of his heartbeat, steadier than his own. After it goes on just long enough to tilt over into weird he shakes himself and sits back, forcing a smile. “Okay, how we doing?”

“I’m fine.” Peter makes a move like he might be trying to get up, but then moans and collapses back. “But I’m, uh, I’m kind of cold? And covered in blood? And the ground’s really uncomfortable?”

Tony considers these problems with a frown, then decides to start with the blood, picking up Peter’s crumpled shirt and using it to gently dab at the red staining his side and stomach. It’s only partially effective—it would be better with water, if they had any, which they don’t, because everything about this situation sucks—but when Tony looks back to Peter’s face he’s met with adoration. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, glancing down his body. Tony starts to pull away, but Peter grabs his wrist, firm. “It feels better when you touch me. Sir.”

Tony can’t hold back an incredulous laugh, and in response Peter flashes a grin that’s half shy, half mischievous. Apparently the brush with death made the kid bold. Or maybe he’s just too out of it from pain to keep up his normal filters.

He should say no. This is exactly the kind of thing he’s been trying to avoid ever since he realized Peter’s obvious crush isn’t entirely one-sided. But, well, extraordinary circumstances.

Without giving himself time to second guess the choice, Tony stretches out on the ground beside Peter, pushing aside the discomfort of dirt and hard rock in favor of focusing on how good it feels to drape an arm across that muscled chest. He tucks the other under Peter’s head, a makeshift pillow that brings their faces dangerously close together, close enough that he can hear that Peter’s breathing has gone shallow. 

“You don’t get to hold me to this once we get you to safety,” he warns. “This is strictly a patient care thing. Bedside manners.”

Peter turns his head, shifting just enough to let their noses brush. “Whatever you say, Mr. Stark,” he murmurs, but the smile in his eyes suggests he’s not going to listen. “Thanks for saving my life. Even if you did leave the creepy alien parasite inside me. Which is still super gross, by the way.”

“Anytime.” Then, trying to sound lighter than he feels, Tony adds, “But try not to make it too many more times, please. I don’t know if my heart can take it.”

“‘K.” Peter brings his hand to the arm Tony has flung over his chest and squeezes. “This part isn’t so bad, though.”

In a moment of weakness he knows he’s going to regret when he’s thinking straighter, Tony brushes his lips against Peter’s cheek.

“No,” he agrees, “this part isn’t so bad.”

**Author's Note:**

> Re-dated because this was an exchange fic, and now authors have been revealed. Sorry if you'd seen it already!
> 
> As always, feedback is very much appreciated and cherished.


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